FREDA ALONE

Auckland Star, Volume LXV, Issue 106, 7 May 1934, Page 15

FREDA ALONE

*l KATHARINE TYNAN

Author of " Pe«jgy, •« the Daughter," j "Mary Gray," etc. !

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS.

FREDA is a forlorn little orphan girl, under the charge of DBXIS VANE, a man with an ungovernable temper, and PEGGY VAXE, who is even more cruel than her husband. For yours Freda works as a piteous drudge at the Villa Marguerite, the Vane household at Marigny, a small French watering resort. The only person who has been kind to her since her parents died is LIONEL. DAMPIER, one or the young men who come to the villa for card playing. There are hints of cheating, and another man, Mil COLQUHOUN, loses heavily, while Mrs. Vane lavishes much attention on him. Later Freda is taken by Vane and his friend, MH. LUTTKELL, to the village fair, where she gets lost. Lionel Dauipiur rescues her from the rough crowd. She breaks dowji, but he comforts her and promises to help her it' he can. Meanwhile Peggy Vane is out motoring with Colnuhoun, and Vane is so worried that he has a lit. However, he is helped home and recovers. Ho broods over his wife's flirtation, and awaits the return of the party from the fair. CHAPTER VII. Harbour. Freda road through the letter, which she only partly understood, with dilating eyes. It seemed to her that now for the first time in nil the terrified, overshadowed years did she really know fear. Her aunt was gone and was not coming back. How would he take it 1 What did it all mean! She put the letter where she had found it. How long would it be before he awoke and w ;nt upstairs and eanie upon the letter for himself? Perhaps not till it was time to dress for dinner. It was one, of the odd things in the man's degraded life that he never omitted to dress for dinner. She crept to the drawing room door and listened. There was not a sound to bo heard. The silence and darkness of the house were oppressive, heavy as lead. If only she dared go out in search of human conrpaniorahip! But the Vfria streamed and a premature darkness had come on; ae she peered out she could see only the shapes of the trees as they flung themselves together in wild contortions of dread and terror. She opened the drawing room door and looked in. She could seo Denis Vane huddled among the grey sofa cushions as she had left him. He was lying on his back, and his Sharp profile glimmered in the dimness. "Uncle Denis," she said, coming nearer. The house seemed full of ghosts that pressed upon her heels. "Uncle Denis!" Her voice rose to a shriek. Hid hand hung limply upon his knee. It was icy cold. Between his eyelids ehe caught the grey, dull gleam of unseeing eyes. Captain Koget, lying warm in bed, enjoying the cessation from pain which had come to him with his few days of rest, was startled most uncomfortably by a sudden wild screaming in the next house. His first step was to jump out of bed and seize his clothes; the next to open his bedroom door and shout down to old Margot, who had served him faithfully for so many years, to go round next door and hammer, hammer with the knocker, so that that scoundrel should know lie was not going to be allowed to kill the child—that he, Roget, was coming to kill him, and that there was no jury in France that would convict him of murder for doing it. While he was shouting to Margot, he was huddling on his clothes, being perfectly aware that Margot had not heard a word he said, since she was stone deaf. Indeed, the good woman was utterly unprepared for the vision she saw presently of the captain, whom she had left comfortably in bed, enjoying his "Petit Journal" and hie cigar, flying through her kitchen, his revolver in his hand, and out into the storm.

As soon as she could recover her scattered senses she went after him, but could see no trace of him in the gathering darkness. The captain meanwhile had arrived at the door of the Villa Marguerite, and was battering upon it, shouting: "Stop it, scoundrel! Stop it! Let the child be. lam coming, I, Eoget, and as soon as I find thee I will kill tliee as dead as a rat."

Suddenly he was awaro that the screaming was close by him, almost at his head. Through the iron, lattice work which formed the upper portion of the door he could see something light lying on the floor close to the door from which the screaming proceeded. There was no trace at all of his enemy. The Captain looked about him helpleesly for a second; then espied a window slightly open. He swung himself on to the stone sill with an activity which surprised himself to think upon afterwards, flung up tho window and clambered into the room beyond. Hβ did not glance the way- of the huddled figure among the cushions. The terrible screaming led him into the hall, where Freda lay on the floor, her face pressed against the wall, in the grip of a mad terror.

When he touched her she screamed worse than ever and tried to push him off. He did tho best thing that could be done. He lifted her up in spite of her struggles, opened the door and carried her out into the garden. "£.eep quiet, little one, keep quiet," he said soothingly, drawing her hair away from his face. "What art thou afraid of? It is I, Eoget, and no one will hurt thee. What is it, then?"

He stroked her hair back gently, and all of a sudden she stopped screaming and looked at him. Something of reason came into her daft eyes. "It is in there; in there!" she said, pointing to the house. "And it is so cold."

"Never mind that. We shall see to that presently," he said soothingly. "Come now, my little one. Do you think you can walk" a few eteps. Don't you know me? Old Roget, who used to drop you pears over the wall. Come now, mignonne."

He put an arm about the child and half-led, half-carried her down the forlorn garden, in at the adjoining gate, between the rows of vegetables, depositing her in the warm kitchen, to the amazement of Margot, who was just huddling herself into a big cloak to go in search of her master.

"Get her into my bed, ilargot,"' lie shouted in the old woman's ear. "She ie cold as ice. Build up the fire. Get her something.hot to drink. I depend on. thee. The child hae had a shock. Sec now, thou art safe, my little one. Here is Margot* and here is Mouequetaire, who would guard thee with his life, and old Roget will come to thee presently." But Freda's terror had exhausted her. She could only shiver and lie in bed with, tears oozing from under her closed ilids, while Margot bustled about, covering her up with blankets and down quilts, putting fuel on the tiny fire, finally lifting . !her head, and holding

which the diild swallowed, sip by sip, with repugnance, but yielding to the old coaxing voice.

Following that was an interminable time, or so it seemed to Freda, of tossing and turning on a bed of fire and a pillow of fire, and finding no rest. Then there came a day when her eyes opened and she looked about her without turning her head, at a strange room, a bare, austere little room, flooded with light, as unlike as possible to the stuffy dark rooms at the Villa Marguerite. There was a bright fire burning in the grate, yet s>he was cold, for the autumn had followed hard on the heels of the storm, and filie was exhausted by the few days of fever. She felt quite shadowy, almost non-existent, as she lay in bed,' which was odd enough, seeing how her burning body had oppressed her in that long dream of acute discomfort. There wore two persone in the room, besides the grey, silky French bulldog, which had discovered that Freda was awake before the others did, and sal licking his chops in a friendly manner, while his eyes goggled at Freda from the mat by the side of the bed. One of the persons in the room was Captain Koget. He sat, stiff ae a ramrod, on the edge of a hard, wooden chair. Facing him was a stranger to Freda. She was a middle-aged lady, who seemed quite old to Freda, and she was dressed in deep black. Her white hair, dressed high, gave her an air of majesty- She had a very austere, sorrowful, eweet face. Their talk slipped past Freda as might tho sound of running water, but presently her attention was arrested by the sound of her own name, and she discovered, with only half-awakened interest, that she was the subject of discussiou. "Poor little one!" said the Captain, with an air of profound pity. "Poor little Freda! It rests between thee and me, my friend, who is to have the child. I wish it might be me, but she needs a woman's care. See what an upbringing she has had. There will be much that needs undoing. I wish I might keep her with me. I am a very lonely man, as thou kuowest, Clementine. But what life have I, what security? And my little annuity dies with me. Thou knowest I gave nearly all I had to my Henri. It lies buried with him in Algiers." "Ah, yes, I know," the woman answered, in a thin sweet voice; "and, besides, it is my task, to atone for at least one of that unfortunate's sins. The child is mine, unless, indeed, we can find out to whom she belongs. Poor little one, poor nameless little one! What a crime wfie theirs who flung her out on tho world to they knew not what fate!" "Nameless!" Something etirred in Freda's mind, hut would not form itself into consecutive ideas. Her thoughts went slipping and sliding from her, and would not take shape. "It will b© as the aunt thought—the excellent aunt," said Captain Roget. "Ah, my friend, when I see women like thee and the aunt, I believe in the good God. What tmtience, what forbearance. What angelic* goodness! And the aunt thinks the child must be nameless, a nobody's child. She will search his papers thoroughly to see if she will come upon a scrap that relates to the child. He may have kept a record- If not, the child is thine and mine. Anything I have saved will go to thee, Clementine, for thee and for her. It would have been thine in any case, thou knowest." "Be in no hurry to go on our account, dear Louis," the lady said, with a smile which was as when tho sun comes out flooding- a wintry landscape with pale brightness, "We shall do very well, although, as thou knowest, I am poorer than I was. But my boy is good and gifted. We shall not want for anything." "Adorable woman, do I not know how he bled thee —that one whose name we mention no more!" "Ah. no, since he is dead. And lie was the husband of my youth." Some; emotion worked in the old soldier's ruddy face. "Yon had better have taken me, Clementine." ■ , , The woman coloured. Freda watched her in a vague -wonder. Why, now that she had that colour, she looked ever so """It was my cross that I had to carry," she said. , , "For thy sanctification, as though thou didet need that." . "I eaved the boy out of the shipwreck. It was the good God's goodness to me." . , Again Captain Roget'e face quivered. He leant forward a little and laid his old purple and knotted hand on the lady's sleeve. "You are a good woman, Clementine —a good woman," ho said, "and the only woman the world ever held for me. Ah, well—you will close my eyes, perhaps, because your pity is like the pity of the good God." "That will not be for a long time yet," she said emiling. "And meanwhile, Louis, why should you stay here ? Why not b« near us at Pont de Pierre? Let us have the solace of each other is friendship in our declining years. There —do not say no. Think upon it, my friend. So often I feel that I need a man's counsel and help, for my Andre, too. He is spirited. He will not always listen to a woman." Freda's thoughts had been taking 6hape. She forgot that she feared to speak, lest her voice should be only a thin whieper, dissolving in air. "I am not nameless," she said slowly, "my name is Freda Traquair."

"Nom d'un pipe," muttered Captain Roget, staring at her, and with no reference at all to what Freda had said. "Xoni d'un pipe; the child is awake." Mousquetaire lifted hie fat body to the bedside, and etood resting on his squat paws wagging hie pleasure at seeing Freda awake again. The lady came to the bedside and smiled down at Freda with a most beautiful expression of face. It seemed heavenly to Freda, who had not known what it was to be looked at like that since her mother died. She smoothed back Freda's hair softly with her hand; and then, bringing something in a feeding-cup, ehe held it to the child's lips. After that, whenever Freda awoke, the lady wae siting there sewing or reading. Freda was lapped about with such a warm care as she had never dreamt of since the time when she was a little child and the apple of their eye to father and mother. Day by day slie orew a little stronger. But there was one thing that dissatisfied her tender nurse, and that was that she could not coax the child to smile—not even when Mousquetaire played all his tnck3 for her; and the sight of Mousquetaire; going through Mβ tricks so solemnly was enough to make anyone laugh, old. JThere jyaaFvft^baiiirfeuig

fear somewhere at the back of the child's mind which looked at the tenderhearted woman out of Freda's tragical eyee. "What is it, then, daughter?" she asked one day. "What is making thec afraid? See how well thou art, thanks to the good (iod. To-morrow, if it is fine, thou ehalt go for a drive. Captain Roget has seen to it. And we shall take Mousquetaire in his little red coat." ' She paused for a second, looking into Freda's shadowed eyes. Then she gathered the child to her warm breast. "Speak, little one," she said, her cheek against Freda's hair. "What hast thou, then, in thy mind? Tell it to thy maman." It was the first time she had used the tender term in speaking of herself. Freda had her eyss against Madame's breast, and began to eob. It all came out—the hidden tenor of the next-door house. "It is just there," she said, "the other side of the wall. And it is all dark and empty. Only in one room there is something lying. Its eyes are partly open. They are dull grey. And they look at me!" "Hush, hush, little one, it is enough. Why didst thou not tell me? But listen, my daughter. The house is not dark. The windows are all open. It is my house, and I am giving it for a good purpose. It is to be a home where the sick children from Pont de Pierre are to come to be made well. Some day you will see it, and you will not know it. It will be all bright and cheerful for the children. As for that other —child, we belong to the good God. Only He can make allowances for the creature He fashioned. Child, we shall pray for him, you and I." But Freda's fears led to an alteration in madamo's arrangements. The young doctor, with the clever, harassed face, came at mid-day, and madame and he had a long consultation outside the door. Nothing was said to Freda till after she had had her meal of chicken, being fed daintily by madame in teaspoonfuls till she had eaten the last scrap. "And now do you feel strong enough to be dressed and to go for a drive, Freda ?" madame asked her. Oh, yes, Freda felt strong enough. A day of Indian summer had succeeded tho October chills and damps, and Freda longed for the open air and the sun. "Strong enough for quite a long drive?" madame said, smiling at her. "How long?" Freda was excited by something in madame's face and voice. "As far as Pont de Pierre. It will take us all the afternoon. But thou shalt be wrapped up warmly and sleep when thou wilt. And—Freda—we are not coming back." Freda's heart leaped up. "I shall be with j'ou, madame? And Mousquetairo and the captain also? And Margot 1" "Those in good time," said madame, smiling. "A man like the captain is not uprooted in a day." Half an hour later the lumbering carriage was at the door. Captain Roget himself carried Freda downstairs, and Freda understood with dumb gratitude when he put her by tho window with the blind drawn down, so that her eyes should not fall upon Villa Marguerite. And so Freda left the house of evil memories behind her for many a long day. - (To he continued daily.)